III.

We find but two streets, terraced one behind the other; quiet, heavily-built houses, a small shop or two, another hotel, a little church, and the bathing establishment.  The latter, large and substantial, overlooks the Gave a few steps up the road.  We stroll inquisitively down through the village, lighten a dull little shop with a trifling investment, strike out upon the hill above for the reward of a view, descend to the bed of the torrent, and finally drift together again into the streetside near the hotel.  Most of the houses are pensions or boarding-places during the summer, and while the spot is much less fashionable and populous than its neighbor, Eaux Bonnes, it is instinct with a comforting placidity not easily to be attained in larger resorts.  The waters are said to be specifically good for rheumatism.  Both drinking and bathing are prescribed.  In former times the simple rule was, the more the better; Thor himself could scarcely have outquaffed the sixteenth-century invalids.  One of the early French historians relates his visit “to the Baths of Beam, seven leagues from Pau.”  A young German, he says, “although very sober, drank each day fifty glasses of sulphur water within the hour.”  He himself was content with twenty-five, “rather from pleasure than need;” he experienced “great relief, with a marvelous appetite, sound sleep, and a feeling of buoyancy in his whole body.”

An experimentally inclined visitor, a few years ago, heard of this exploit of the “sober young German,” and attempted to repeat it.  He very nearly lost his life in consequence.

The sovereigns at Pau were very fond of the Eaux.  Marguerite of Angouleme loved to come to this stern, peaceful valley, and here found inspiration for her thoughts and her writings.  One of her letters tells us that in these mountains, apart from the careless court, "elle a appris a vivre plus de papier que d’aultres choses," Her daughter, Queen Jeanne, Henry’s mother, found her health here when she was young, having been “meagre and feeble.”  She often visited them afterward.  Her visits were costly, too; the expenses of the court were considerable, but she had to bring an armed guard as well; Spain always stood ready to kidnap the Queen of Navarre if it had opportunity.  Such were the times.

Later, for almost a century, these springs became neglected and forgotten; they were then again brought into notice, and now seem to have gained a permanent popularity.

As afternoon closes in, we reunite at the hotel, where Madame greets us graciously.  Her visitors will begin to come with the coming week, but we actually have the house to ourselves.  In the tidy parlor blazes a wood-fire; out of doors, in the dusk, it has grown a trifle chilly.  Attentions are doubled upon us when it is known that we are Americans; Madame’s daughter, who has married the chef and will succeed